Vorare
by Gabi Howard
Summary: The quickest path to destroying Sherlock is through John, and the Reaper has always been good at reading people. Dedicated to Flinch-Hayward.
1. Chapter 1

Another Saturday night, another double murder. John shivered and huddled a little further into his coat, both from the chill of the night and the sheer amount of blood that was in front of him.

At least the Taliban left things like that as they were.

"Still nothing?" Lestrade asked after a while. Sherlock looked up from where he'd stopped five minutes ago and had been staring at the couple ever since. The look on his face said enough, and the DI nodded grimly. "Alright guys, let's get this cleaned up."

There had been quips the first few times, catcalls from those who took a little too much pleasure in seeing Sherlock Holmes stumped. John wasn't sure when that petered out, but he reckoned it was around about the time they got the letter. That and the fact that Sherlock had been with the police at the time of three of the four murders had destroyed Sally's theory that the reason for his cluelessness had been his culpability; now, all that was left was unease and a horror that mounted with the death toll.

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos of the murder scene, Sherlock vanished. John spared a moment to look for him, then went to flag down a cab.

He got back to Baker Street to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa, holding the letter over his head as though the light shining through it would reveal some deep secret. He'd been doing it all week. John rolled his eyes, and went to make the tea.

"Does it bother you?" Sherlock asked, when he put his mug on the coffee table.

"Does what bother me?"

"That I said no."

There was no need to ask for a further explanation. John had been there when he opened the letter, and when he made the decision not to reply, and he'd not said a word about it since then. Granted, at the time, he had still been fairly certain Sherlock would catch the bastard, but still.

He thought on it for a moment. Yes, he was disappointed. 8 people were lying dead that might otherwise have been saved by a quick phone call, and John couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for not having argued the point, but at the end of the day, people like the Reaper needed to be caught. Letting him go would have been letting him win.

"No."

Sherlock regarded him for a moment, then tossed the letter back onto the table, the stark writing face-up:

IF YOU STOP HUNTING ME, I WILL STOP HUNTING THEM  
FOR AS LONG AS WE BOTH SHALL LIVE  
UNTIL DEATH DO US PART  
IF YOU AGREE TO MY TERMS, TAKE OUT A PERSONAL AD  
IN THE CAMDEN GAZETTE

Alongside it lay a crime scene photo, taken the night the next edition of the _Gazette_ was published:

NO DEAL

* * *

The next week, there was a survivor. George Foyet was rushed to North Middlesex Hospital, having been found with his girlfriend (dead) in their car down a back road. By the evening of the next day, he was conscious enough to answer some questions.

Yes, he had seen the Reaper. Yes, he could provide a description- and did- which the police artist could form into a sketch. No, he didn't know anything else, but as soon as he remembered anything more, he'd let them know.

Sherlock wasn't allowed to interrogate him. After a brief shouting match with Lestrade and some of the doctors, he left the hospital fuming. John could understand why they weren't letting him near Foyet- the poor bloke had enough to be getting on with as it was without having an increasingly impatient genius quizzing him- but he found himself half-wishing they had, just so that they could get on with the case. Knowing Sherlock, he'd likely have deduced a dozen more things than any police psychologist within seconds of stepping into the room, and it would've made John's life a lot easier. Sherlock's annoyance was palpable, and he was more than likely going to take it out on the violin until he got to see Foyet in person.

Still. It was a start.

* * *

As expected, Sherlock spent the better part of the night impersonating an alley cat on his violin. Lestrade's call woke John from what had been only a few hours' sleep at most; Foyet was expected to be released from hospital in approximately three days. Sherlock still wasn't allowed to talk to him, a fact about which he proceeded to sulk for several hours, but it made John feel a little better.

Again, it was a help, but for the next five days it was all they had, bar the report on his wounds. Sherlock took to pacing the living room, muttering about how something wasn't right, John listening with half an ear and almost looking forward to Saturday.

That came, went, and left behind another pair of corpses. An older couple this time, fewer wounds, which seemed to fit in with the pattern- the younger the woman, the more aggressive the attack.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't convinced.

"There's something we're missing here," he muttered, prowling around the crime scene, fingers steepled. "It's obvious. It will be. It's got to be."

He turned to Lestrade, who gave him a Look. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask," Sherlock half-whined.

"Yes I do, and Foyet is still off-limits. I can't have you giving the man more mental issues than he's got already." And that was that. At least, until they were in the taxi, and Sherlock's eyes glittered.

John knew that look.

"What is it?"

"He said I'd give Foyet mental issues."

"And..."

A grin. "He didn't say you would."

* * *

"Mr Foyet? I'm John Watson."

The man blinked, looked John over for several moments; understandable, for someone who'd escaped a serial killer. Then he nodded, now looking out into the street. "Come in."

The house was normal, if a little plain- all beige/brown shades, IKEA furniture- and neat. Foyet ushered him through to the kitchen and gestured to a chair. "You want a cup of tea?"

"Oh, yes please."

There was silence for a minute, broken only by the sound of the kettle. "Milk, sugar?"

"Er, milk, no sugar please. Thanks," a moment later, after the mug was set in front of him. Foyet eased himself into a chair.

"I'm guessing you're here about...?" He gestured to the bandages protruding from his shirt collar. John shifted in his chair, feeling intensely awkward.

"Yeah, 'fraid so."

"But you're not a policeman."

It wasn't a question. "No," John admitted, "I'm... a concerned party."

"A friend of Sherlock Holmes'?" John blinked.

"Yes, how did you...?"

Foyet smiled thinly and nodded towards the laptop on the counter. "His blog. 'The Science of Deduction'. Brilliant stuff. And I know who you are, of course, Doctor. You come up quite a bit."

"Yes, well. Flatmates tend to." Foyet raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and John decided that they'd said quite enough on that particular subject. "I'm sorry, we're getting off track."

"Indeed. Now, Doctor, what did you want to know?"

* * *

"Right. Well, thanks for your time. If anything comes up..."

"I'll let you know. Thanks." Foyet gave a weak smile. John nodded in return, and headed out the door. The talk had been as expected- Foyet had been hesitant, occasionally pausing to calm himself down, particularly when he'd talked about his girlfriend's death. And no wonder, really. Being shot once had been enough to get John psychosomatic pain, nightmares and whatever the opposite of PTSD was, so God knew what Foyet was going through right now.

But, he thought as he reached out a hand for a cab, something wasn't quite right...

"_Do you know how long it takes to stab someone _sixty-seven_ times?"_

...and there it was.

Shit.

'Lexical choice, John,' the voice of his sixth-form English teacher reprimanded him, 'tells us a lot about the narrator', and didn't it just.

There was no going to confront Foyet now- he'd have weapons, and John had left his gun at home. He grabbed his phone, punched in Sherlock's number. It took an agonisingly long time to connect, and as he waited, he glanced back at the house, where a lone silhouette stood at the window, watching him.

"Come on, Sherlock, pick up your phone-"

"Welcome to BT voicemail. If you'd like to leave a message, press 1."

"Fuck..." he hung up, called Lestrade. Still no reply. A cab pulled up and he jumped inside, grateful to get out of Foyet's eyesight for a while at least, though it occurred to him a moment later that keeping an eye on the man would have been a better idea.

Still, Sherlock had to know. "Baker Street, please."

* * *

"Oh, John dear, you've got a visitor."

"Not now, Mrs Hudson- have you seen Sherlock?"

"He's just gone out, dear, sorry about that. But your visitor's very insistent on seeing you, says it's urgent.

"I'm afraid-

"His name's George, if that rings a bell?"

...oh God.

John lowered his voice. "Mrs Hudson, you need to get out of here right now."

"Is there something-"

"No, but call Sherlock, call the police- tell them the Reaper's here. Take my phone, go. Go!" He hurried her out the doorway, locking it behind her and sliding the key under the mat- if Foyet wanted blood, then he'd keep it at a minimum.

He considered not going upstairs for a moment but discarded the thought. If he wouldn't go up, then Foyet would come down, and the whole thing would be on his terms. Not like it wasn't anyway, but at least he would be a little closer to his gun if he were upstairs. It was in his room though, and that was on the upper floor...

He climbed the stairs.

* * *

"Answer your bloody phone, Sherlock, it might be important."

"As important as finding the Reaper? Your priorities are a little skewed, Detective Inspector- it's in the left pocket of my jacket."

Lestrade fished it out and held it towards Sherlock, who quirked a lip. "Did I say I was going to answer it?"

"Oh, for God's sake..." He flipped it open and held it to his ear. "John? Oh... right, of course. Yeah, he's here." He held it out again. "It's your landlady."

"Oh, never mind her. Say-" but no, Mrs Hudson never called him. Why now? Lestrade had said 'John' at first- why his phone, not the landline? She hated mobiles. Sherlock held out a hand.

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, I just hung up-"

"Call back. Now. Oh, forget it," he snatched the phone from his hand and dialled John's number. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Sherlock? John told me to call you, he told me to get outside, he says the Reaper's here..."

Implying he'd stayed inside, implying he was alone with the murderer, implying he'd found him first, tried to contact Sherlock and instead been met by him. Sherlock forced down the wave of panic that threatened to disrupt his thought patterns. "Calm down Mrs Hudson. Where are you?"

"I'm outside the flat, I left my travel pass inside and-" a gunshot- "oh my God. Sherlock?"

"I'm on my way. Stay exactly where you are, we'll be there in a few minutes. If anyone comes out the door, hide." He hung up, grabbing his jacket. "Lestrade, I need a lift."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Sherlock? John told me to call you, he told me to get outside, he says the Reaper's here..." ___

_Implying he'd stayed inside, implying he was alone with the murderer, implying he'd found him first, tried to contact Sherlock and instead been met by him. Sherlock forced down the wave of panic that threatened to disrupt his thought patterns. "Calm down Mrs Hudson. Where are you?" _

_"I'm outside the flat, I left my travel pass inside and-" a gunshot- "oh my God. Sherlock?" _

_"I'm on my way. Stay exactly where you are, we'll be there in a few minutes. If anyone comes out the door, hide." He hung up, grabbing his jacket. "Lestrade, I need a lift." _  


* * *

Mrs Hudson was on the corner of Baker Street when they arrived, standing amidst the crowd of police cars and ambulances Lestrade had called on their way over. Sherlock marched over and took her by the shoulders. "Did you see him?"

"I don't-"

"The Reaper, did you see him?"

"He left, but-" she shook her head. "I don't know, Sherlock, he was in one of those dreadful hoodie things, I didn't recognise him at all..." She was distressed; Sherlock relented.

"Alright. Thankyou, Mrs Hudson." He left a hand on her shoulder as he turned to Lestrade. "I need someone to stay with her."

"You stay, I'm not having you-"

"The Reaper's gone. He doesn't leave explosives or traps at his murder scenes, I'll be fine."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade pointed over his shoulder, and Sherlock turned to see paramedics wheeling a stretcher out of the house. His view of it was blocked, but there was only one person it could be carrying. "He's alive, look. They're working on him."

So there was nothing to be done there. Sherlock nodded, started for the house anyway, calling over his shoulder. "The Reaper always leaves something at the crime scene. Whatever it was, I need to find it. Put a guard on John when he gets to the hospital- he knows who the Reaper is, there might be a second attack."

And yet he was alive. A second survivor. The Reaper was getting sloppy, it seemed, only something didn't quite fit. What had John done since he'd last seen him? What had he had access to that Sherlock hadn't, what might he have seen differently?

The flat revealed very little. A dent in the wall from a gunshot, angled, aiming towards John but not at him, possibly as a distraction. The Reaper had used a gun before, but a smaller calibre- this was most likely John's own pistol. A pool of blood on the floor, darker areas indicating stab wounds, and some evidence of a fight. The Reaper had been ushered upstairs by Mrs Hudson, gone to John's room for the gun...

Mrs Hudson.

* * *

He found her in a police car, wrapped in a familiar orange blanket and cradling a disposable mug of tea. He got in next to her and waited.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, he-"

"It's alright." He smiled a little, covered her hand with his own. "John's alive, they've taken him to hospital. He's going to be fine."

"But how can you be sure? I mean, he wasn't moving, and they were giving him oxygen and-"

"He'll be fine. The Reaper wouldn't have left him alive otherwise."

And then it hit him. The Reaper hadn't been interrupted on either of the two occasions there had been a survivor. He wasn't the type to get things wrong so badly, he'd let the victims go for a reason, but Foyet made no sense. With John he wanted power, he was taunting Sherlock, but...

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. "Oh, that's brilliant!"

His landlady looked more than a little lost. "What is, dear?"

"Mrs Hudson, I need to know what you remember of the Reaper. Tall, relatively thin, wearing glasses...?"

"Yes, that was him, I think- his clothes were baggy. How do you-"

Sherlock pulled up a picture of Foyet on his phone. "Does he look like this?"

"Yes, yes, that's him exactly."

"Thankyou." He jumped out of the car and waved a nearby policeman over. "See that she's taken into protective custody at once." The man blinked at him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, it's not difficult..."

"Get it done, Gregson." That was Lestrade, back from a quick look round the flat. "If he says she's in danger, she's in danger. Go talk to Donovan, she's sorting out a security team for Watson too."

The policeman thus shooed, Sherlock turned to the DI. "George Foyet is the Reaper. He made the call to the police, returned to the car and inflicted the stab wounds on himself. John must have worked it out after he interviewed him- he came to find me, found Foyet instead."

Lestrade looked incredulous but mercifully didn't argue. "Where is he now?"

And oh, how Sherlock hated giving this answer... "I've no idea."

* * *

_"Pretty nice gun you've got." John looked up to see Foyet on the stairs to his room, examining his Browning. "Army issue, right?" ___

_He wasn't close enough to try attacking him, especially now that he was armed. For now, all John could do was play along. "Yes." _

_"There's swords in your living room too, you've got quite the collection. Sherlock's though, I'm guessing, they're far too elegant for you." _

_"Elegant doesn't generally equate to practical," John pointed out, working out ways in which he might be able to get to the swords before Foyet could attack. They were by the fireplace, if he could just- _

_"Of course not. Me, I'd much rather use this." Foyet drew a small knife from his pocket, angling it so that the light glittered along the blade as he slowly came downstairs. "Much easier to hide, although I'll admit, guns do have their uses. Like this, for instance." _

_He aimed, and fired. The bullet grazed John's cheek, distracting him enough for Foyet to punch him in the jaw. John retaliated with a left hook, but the man sidestepped and brought his elbow down on John's injured shoulder; with a shout, he crumpled. _

_"And this bit's the fun part." Foyet kicked him onto his back. "Because, as a medical man, I'm sure you're well acquainted with the intricacies of the human body, and exactly how few places there are to stab someone and not hit a major artery." John tried to punch him and was rewarded with searing pain as Foyet dug the knife into his arm. "Uh-uh. Don't go spoiling it now. I've never really practised on other people before- consider yourself special, if you like- but do you have any idea how much study this takes?" _

_The knife came down on his abdomen this time. Foyet grinned. "And do try to relax, Doctor. Your body will go numb, and the blade goes in so much easier..." _  


* * *

"Doctor? Doctor Watson, can you hear me?"

John blinked drowsily. His thoughts were clouded- morphine. He was in hospital, then, Mrs Hudson had...

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Afraid not. My name's Doctor Jones." The voice sounded strained, if a little amused.

"No, I mean," he shifted slightly, winced despite the painkillers, "is Mrs Hudson alright? My landlady."

He opened his eyes properly to see a confused-looking doctor. "I'm... sorry, I don't know."

"But I do, and she's fine." Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking slightly paler than usual under the harsh lights of the hospital.

"Right," John nodded slightly, winced again. Odd, he didn't remember an injury in his neck. "Good. What happened?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "You were attacked by George Foyet when you returned home, presumably to-"

"Yes, I know that. I was there," he pointed out, gesturing slightly to the swath of bandages on his upper body. "What- wait. You know it was Foyet?"

"Yes. I worked it out shortly after the attack." He nodded at John, sitting in the chair at his bedside as though he wasn't quite sure he was allowed there. "I'm willing to give credit where it's due, though- you did get there first."

"How did you..."

"Mrs Hudson." And there, a little confidence returning. "You wouldn't have known to send her out if you hadn't known who was in the house with you. How did you work it out, by the way?"

"Foyet said something about how long it takes to stab someone. It didn't stick out until I left, I don't even know why it did then, but then I looked back and he was watching me. I could see him. People who've escaped a serial killer don't stand in full view of the street like that."

Sherlock looked pleased, and mildly surprised. "You're learning."

"Yes, well, it's from the best." John looked him over with a slight frown. "Are you alright?"

"Me?" He looked like he'd been caught off-guard. "Of course I'm alright, I'm fine."

"Sherlock..."

"John." Still unsettled. "You're in hospital with seven stab wounds, and you're asking if _I'm_ alright?"

John allowed himself a smile. "Well, yes, because you look bloody awful. When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed in a manner not unlike a goldfish. John snickered, then began to cough when the movement irritated his chest, wincing as pain lanced through it. Eventually the fit subsided and he leant into the pillows, gasping a little. Sherlock was leaning forward in his seat, he noticed, and suddenly he was reminded of the pool. There was no babbling, but Sherlock looked every bit as pale as he had then.

The smile returned.

_And they said he was a sociopath...  
_

* * *

He'd left after a while- John was safe enough in the hospital, and Foyet still needed to be caught. Baker Street was swarming when he returned, with a crowd of onlookers and press gathered outside the blockade of police cars and tape at which Lestrade greeted him.

"I thought you'd want to have a proper look at what he's taken, so I've asked them to leave the flat alone."

Sherlock nodded his thanks as they reached the door, then ran up the stairs to the flat. A blue-suited forensic worker shuffled a little further against the wall to let them past the blood stain he was taking samples from. Sherlock scowled at the floor as they passed and didn't look up until they got into the flat itself.

The lounge appeared untouched. Foyet would have been there briefly before going upstairs, using the carpeting to muffle his footsteps so as not to alert Mrs Hudson. John had met him at the bottom of the stairs, had been shot at and attacked. There were traces of blood on the carpet leading up the stairs- footprints. The bloodstain was just large enough that his toes would have had some on it, but there was no blood on the lounge floor. Whatever he'd left was in John's room then, since he'd have gone up there as soon as possible in the knowledge that John was likely to return.

The bedroom itself was as spartan as ever- the only thing that had changed was that the desk drawer where John kept his gun was open, and the gun itself gone.

"Thought as much," Sherlock murmured as Lestrade reached the room. _But what did he leave?_

"You know what he took?"

"Mm? Yes, yes I do."

Lestrade looked expectant for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"No," Sherlock informed him, smiling slightly. Lestrade gave him a hard stare.

"Fine." Sherlock blinked, and it was the DI's turn to smile, albeit a little grimly. "I'm trusting you on this one. But I do expect results, yeah?"

Sherlock was about to retort that that was what he always produced when his mobile rang.

_02076361352 __  
__calling _  
  
"Payphone, just off Oxford Street." Lestrade nodded and left, shouting out orders. Sherlock had barely pressed the speaker button before the voice came through, filtered like the ones to the emergency services: "Last chance, Sherlock Holmes."

"I thought I had made it clear that there was no deal, George."

Foyet chuckled. "Clever you. John wins though, I think- he worked it out hours ago. But I'm getting sidetracked."

"There is no deal." Sherlock repeated.

"Oh," and the man almost sounded disappointed. "Well, that is a shame. Have fun keeping this one covered up, then- you've got 8 days to work it out."

A beep.  
_  
__Call duration: 42 seconds._


	3. Chapter 3

"_I thought I had made it clear that there was no deal, George."_

_Foyet chuckled. "Clever you. John wins though, I think- he worked it out hours ago. But I'm getting sidetracked."_

"_There is no deal." Sherlock repeated._

"_Oh," and the man almost sounded disappointed. "Well, that is a shame. Have fun keeping this one covered up, then- you've got 8 days to work it out."_

_A beep._

_Call duration: 42 seconds._

__

_

* * *

_

They were halfway to Oxford Street when Lestrade's walkie-talkie went off. By the time they arrived, the press had converged on the street; in particular the number 13 bus outside Selfridges.

To be fair, a bus with blood-splattered windows probably wasn't something they saw every day.

The inside was carnage, as was to be expected. There had been 11 people on board, each of them shot. John's gun, presumably. Had it been left behind?

"Jesus Christ..."

Lestrade's reactions were ignorable for now. Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and set about examining the driver. Sure enough, the gun was in his pocket, and Sherlock withdrew it gingerly. Now, what had been taken? Foyet wouldn't have had time to go through the passengers in the seats towards the back- despite the time, there were plenty of people on the streets, the alarm would have been raised whilst he was firing. The driver wasn't missing anything obvious, but there was a student in the seat beside his cabin who didn't have a bag.

But why her? It would have been a great deal easier to take something from the driver, since Foyet would have been standing between the cabin and the doors when he fired on the others.

That would go towards explaining the wording of the phone call. Eight days... there had been eight days between Foyet's self-injury and his attack on John. If this was a puzzle, what had he been meant to-

Of course. Foyet's identity. The stabbing wasn't just a way to gain power over the investigation as a supposed witness, it was a clue, a test. And now there was another.

A bus shooting, a student's bag, eight days. Either the student was important- doubtful- or the bus route itself was. The route passed Baker Street, but that had already been attacked. It was doubtful Foyet would go back there; he'd never revisited his crime scenes before, as far as they were aware.

One of the other stops, then. _Golders Green, Childs Hill, Finchley Road, Swiss Cottage..._

Finchley Road.

John's sister lived in Finchley. The student was female. It was a long shot, but...

"Lestrade!"

* * *

"So what, are we putting everyone that's got anything to do with the Freak into custody now?"

"Actually, no," Sherlock told her. "She's related to John, not me, and I wouldn't dare use the Force in such a flagrant manner to appease paranoia, should I ever have it."

Sally opened her mouth to say something, but Lestrade got there first. "_Donovan_. You have your orders, go."

Oddly enough, she smiled at Sherlock in a way that generally implied that the smiler knew something you didn't. Raised her hands, too. "Alright, alright, I'm on it." As she walked off, Sherlock was fairly certain she _snickered_.

He turned a quizzical glance on Lestrade, but the DI just smiled in exactly the same way Sally had- in much the same way, he realised, as he'd done when he'd told Sherlock he trusted him.

Really, what was all that about? Neither of them ever normally-

_Oh. John._

Sherlock scoffed internally. The idea that the attack on John made the case any more pertinent was ridiculous; all the focus on John had done was to make Foyet's actions more centred and thus more predictable.

But there was a part of him- a tiny part- that told him to look at the evidence properly. At his panic at Mrs Hudson's phone call, however short-lived it had been, at his edginess at the hospital. As usual, he shut that part off. It was a distraction, and at present, that was something he could not afford.

Later, perhaps. No, definitely. When he'd caught Foyet, he'd get to the bottom of it.

* * *

Apparently, alcohol made Harry Watson decidedly intolerant of uniformed men turning up at her door at 2am. Granted, most people would likely have been a little put out by being taken into custody at any time, but after Harry managed to deliver solid punches to both men, they decided it would be better to post guards outside until the morning.

At 9am, she still wasn't quite sober, but Sally's appearance made her decidedly more agreeable; within the hour, she had a bag packed and was off to a safe house. Lestrade phoned Sherlock with the news just as he arrived at the hospital to pass it on to John. Apparently nobody had told her about his hospitalisation- if she found out, she would likely be rather angry, but John would be happier until then.

Well, perhaps 'happy' was the wrong word. Relieved, at least.

He found John propped into something like a sitting position, pale from blood loss and what pain wasn't dulled by the morphine but otherwise recovering well, all things considered. He was safe, he was going to be well, and Sherlock was pleased by that, not merely because he made dealing with idiots at crime scenes so much easier.

Again, emotions. He filed the internal monologue away and leant in the doorway. John waggled his fingers at him- his arms were still heavily bandaged- and gestured towards the TV. "He struck again, then?"

His voice was strained. Understandable. "Yes. A bus shooting. He also called." He waved the mobile for emphasis.

"What did he say?"

"He offered me the deal again. I refused, he said I had eight days to solve his puzzle."

"And what was that?"

"The bus route. It went past Baker Street, and one of the other stops was Finchley Road."

John blanched. "Harry?"

"She's with the police," Sherlock assured him. "In protective custody. Donovan is apparently overseeing it personally."

That elicited a smile, though John still looked a little worried. "That'll cheer her up. She has a thing for curly hair."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but said nothing, instead electing to take the bedside chair. "I believe the discussion we're supposed to be having right now is how your condition is progressing."

"Oh, come on," John scoffed. "Since when did you go in for social convention?"

Only very recently. Though I will admit, I find it difficult to use them appropriately." John gave him an odd look, then blinked a few times. Then smiled.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

And Sherlock found himself smiling back.

* * *

John was released from hospital a week later, laden with medication and strict instructions on how to take it. The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, but comfortable; the awkwardness only began on their arrival. The carpet in the hallway had been removed, but the gunshot in the wall was still there and John froze on seeing it. Sherlock, who had reached the doorway, turned.

"Are you alright?" He asked after a moment.

"Me? Fine, yeah. I'm fine."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Your face is pale, your body stance is rigid and your speech is even less coherent than usual. You are anything but 'fine'." John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock got there first. "He cannot hurt you here."

John blinked. "Of course he can't."

"Your body language says that you believe otherwise, however subconsciously. Would different accommodation be more... reassuring?"

There was silence for a moment. The fact that John was having to consider it shouldn't have been unnerving- he'd been attacked here, after all, the associated memories would still be fresh in his mind- but somehow, it was.

"No," John said eventually. "No, I'll be alright." He tore his eyes away from the wall and walked determinedly past Sherlock. "D'you want a cup of tea?"

"Love one," Sherlock told him, noting that it felt rather like a weight had been lifted from his chest with the action. Odd, he'd always thought that was a cliché- a turn of phrase, nothing more, although he remembered something similar from the pool, when he'd found John after the explosion.

Was this what caring felt like?

* * *

The relief didn't last long; in fact, its duration was a little under 24 hours. Because Foyet hadn't been caught, and the night after John returned to Baker Street, his deadline expired. Sally Donovan went to check on Harry Watson the morning after John was released. On arrival, she found the door locked and George Sanderson, Harry's minder, dead in the hallway, the missing bag at his side. Of Harry herself there was no sign.

Lestrade called a few minutes after that, and Sherlock arrived at the crime scene less than half an hour later.

"How's John?"

"Asleep. Between the sedatives and the rather strident warnings from the hospital, I considered it best to leave him like that. And no, I don't think Foyet's likely to go back for him," he continued before the DI could interrupt. "I also don't think this is entirely pertinent to the case at hand."

Lestrade shook his head slightly and gestured for him to follow. As he turned, Sherlock was quite certain he heard him muttering something about attempts to be polite, which elicited nothing more than a smirk.

"Single stab wound to the torso. Likely died... I'd say six hours ago, judging by body temperature." He stood, glancing at the footprints leading upstairs. "Foyet killed him, woke Harry up and told her that he had been sent as a replacement in order to ensure her complacency. They left together in Sanderson's car."

"Any idea where they went?"

"Not yet. It would be somewhere personal though- Harry's home, maybe. Send officers there, and..." Wait. "Where is Mrs Hudson?"

"Your landlady?" Sally looked puzzled, then alarmed. "She's with Hassanzadeh, I meant to check on them afterwards..."

"But you didn't. Lestrade, I need a car, now," Sherlock ordered as he ran out the door. "And send someone to Baker Street too!"

"I thought you said John was safe?"

"I assumed Mrs Hudson was as well, now send them!"

They arrived at the house within minutes. Sherlock ignored the police as they whispered from radio to radio and broke in through the kitchen window.

Mrs Hudson ran into the room just in time to stop Hassanzadeh from shooting him in the face.

"Sherlock?" She demanded. Sherlock blinked back at her, and the police kicked down the front door.

* * *

John woke up to sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window. There was no movement in the flat, and he lay there for close to a minute before his wounds began to twinge with pain again. The painkillers were in the lounge, and after a brief mental debate he decided that, while moving hurt, it was only going to get worse if he didn't get them; with a sigh, he eased himself out of bed and padded slowly down the stairs.

The boxes of pills were on the living room mantelpiece. He picked up the ones that were needed and went to get a drink to wash them down. Reaching into the cupboards hurt only a little, and he grabbed a glass. As he put it on the counter, a photo fluttered down beside it.

_Odd._ He picked it up and examined it for a moment. It showed two small children- a boy and a girl- at Trent Park, grinning toothily in the sunshine. Him and Harry, back when they'd been tiny.

There was a bloody fingerprint on Harry's hair.

* * *

The call came through at 10:32, this time from a disposable mobile phone. There was the sound of trees rustling in the background, children in the distance, but that didn't help much; he needed to narrow it down.

"You didn't work it out, Sherlock. I'm disappointed."

"Where are you?"

There was a chuckle. "I already told you. Obviously you didn't find my note."

Of course. They'd never found what it was Foyet had left at the flat, after all. "And I suppose that means you're not going to tell me again."

"Exactly. I mean, Harry worked it out, despite the tinted glass. Not that she'll be much help to you, of course- she got a bit... feisty. Had to restrain her. Oh, don't worry, she's not dead," he assured him, though Sherlock had guessed as much- 'restrain' would have been an odd word choice otherwise, "just... sleeping. For now."

This was revealing little to nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes in annoyance. "What do you want?"

"Want? It's quite simple, Sherlock. I want John's world. And I want to watch it burn." Another breathy laugh. "Because when that happens, I will have you." Apparently everyone had seen this situation before he had. Sherlock's frustration was increasing. "Where is the good doctor, by the way?"

"Away from you."

"But of course. Give him my best, won't you?" There was a gasp of pain in the background. "Ah, Harry's woken up. I hate to cut this short, but I really have to go. Just one quick thing though- is there anything you'd like to say to her before she dies?"

Sherlock was silent, and before he could speak-

"NOT MY SISTER, YOU BASTARD!"

-there was a gunshot. Two. And the line went dead.


	4. Chapter 4

"_Ah, Harry's woken up. I hate to cut this short, but I really have to go. Just one quick thing though- is there anything you'd like to say to her before she dies?"_

_Sherlock was silent, and before he could speak-_

"_NOT MY SISTER, YOU BASTARD!"_

_-there was a gunshot. Two. And the line went dead._

_

* * *

_John had wasted no time after finding the photo- he didn't even bother changing out of his pyjamas before running out to hail a cab. The journey to Trent Park couldn't have been slower to him, traffic at roundabouts and junctions potentially killing his sister, if she was still-

No. He wasn't thinking that. He couldn't.

He arrived at the park to be greeted by stares, which he ignored in favour of running in the direction of the trees beyond the open space. He knew where the photo had been taken (it had been their favourite spot as children) the only question now was whether he could get there in time.

There was a figure in the clearing when he arrived. If he'd had any doubt it was Foyet, it vanished the moment he saw the gun pointed at Harry. John leapt forwards.

"NOT MY SISTER, YOU BASTARD!"

Foyet was surprised- he fired twice, the shots went wide and he dropped the gun- but John quickly realised he was at a disadvantage. Foyet's injuries had had a little time to heal, while every one of John's punches sent pain shooting through his arms, to say nothing of the punches Foyet got in. He found himself on his back, breathless from the pain as the murderer ruthlessly used his injuries against him. Blackness crept in around the edges and he gasped.

Then the weight was gone and the punches stopped. He blinked, gasping for air, and realised after a moment that Harry was laying into Foyet, shrieking in anger in between punches.

"You dare... lay a hand... on my little brother again... I swear to _God_-"

Foyet pulled out his knife. The gun was next to John- he grabbed it, fired.

* * *

Sherlock was still staring at the phone, trying to work out where the hell that call had come from, when it rang again. He paused a moment before picking up- if it was Foyet calling to gloat, he didn't want to hear it- but he gave in.

"Hello?" The voice was shaky, female. Harry Watson.

"Is John alright?"

"I don't... he's not... he's all bandaged and there's blood coming through and I've called an ambulance but I don't know if it'll get here in time-"

"It will," Sherlock told her, realising she needed to be calmed if he was going to get any kind of information from her. "Of course it will. Where are you? What's happened to John?"

"Trent Park, in the woods. This madman- he was going to kill me, but John stopped him." Her voice was steadier now. Sherlock motioned to Lestrade and began to head for the door. "They fought, but I think... it looked like John had some kind of injury already and the fight opened it, I don't know-"

"It'll be fine, Harry. Just stay where you are. We will be there soon."

And they were, except by that point there was little for the police to do except hold back the public. The ambulance had left minutes before- John's wounds had indeed reopened, but an officer who'd helped the paramedics assured Sherlock that he was likely to recover. Harry had gone with him, keen to keep an eye on her brother, and to leave behind the sight of Foyet's body.

Sherlock stood over the corpse, glancing over his injuries. He was impressed with both Watsons- for John to get even a few punches in had been an achievement, and Harry had clearly shown little compunction in protecting her brother. Considering John's previous behaviour, though, he supposed it was to be expected.

He felt... cheated, somehow, but at the same time grimly happy. He was glad Foyet was dead, but he wanted to have been the one to do it. The reaction- revenge and relief at the safety of someone close- but alien to him. It was oddly fascinating.

But enough. There was no mystery here, just a bullet hole in the forehead. Sherlock turned and nodded to the forensics team.

It was over.

* * *

"You know, when I read your blog..." Harry ran a hand through her hair. "God, John, I thought you were making that shit up for your therapist. For yourself. Delusions of grandeur or something. I never thought for a _second_ that it was real."

"Such a low opinion of me? Harry, 'm disappointed." John's grin was weak, his words slurred, but the humour in his voice had its desired effect; his sister smiled, ever so slightly. Still wasn't happy though.

"I thought I was going to die back there. I thought you were going to die. They told me what happened, but I don't understand- why you? What the hell are you doing that makes a serial killer want to target you?"

"I believe I would be the attraction, in this case," Sherlock drawled from the doorway. Harry's head whipped round and he waved slightly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, I figured," she said, looking him over. After a moment, she broke into a grin and began to giggle, which made Sherlock look decidedly confused. "Oh God..."

"Are you alright?" The detective asked carefully. Harry made an obvious effort to control her laughter

"Yeah, fine. It's just that I said 'what are you doing', and-"

John groaned as she collapsed into giggles again. "Harry."

"What?"

"I'm not- he's not..."

"Keep telling yourself that," she retorted, and winked at him. Sherlock still looked confused and John was amused despite himself. "Anyway, I'm going to leave you two alone for a bit- apparently this," she gestured to the cut on her head where Foyet had knocked her out, "means I was meant to see a nurse or something when you woke up."

"You will see one, won't you?" John said sternly, remembering her dislike of hospital staff, and of the places in general.

"I'll make sure she does." That was Sally, appearing in the doorway behind Sherlock. Harry suddenly looked a good deal happier at the idea of seeing a doctor, and it was John's turn to feel smug.

"You were saying?"

Harry gave him a Look. "Jealous, are we?"

"No, no," he waved her away. "You go. I'll be fine."

"'Course you are." She leant in to place a quick kiss on his forehead before rounding on Sherlock. "You take care of him, alright?"

"I intend to."

Harry looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded like she'd found what she wanted. "Good. If you don't, you'll be answering to me." She pointed a finger to emphasise the threat, waved to John and left.

There was silence for a moment before Sherlock cleared his throat. "Your sister seems... interesting."

John grinned. "Yeah, she is at that."

"Protective, too."

"I'd noticed," he said, shifting slightly. "She had a fit when I was sent to Afghanistan."

"And that, coupled with her divorce, led to the breakdown of your relationship."

"Actually, it started way before that. But yeah, that was the final straw."

Sherlock settled himself in the bedside chair. "Not quite so final, it would seem."

"Well, no." John smiled. "Hopefully. Apparently she started seeing a therapist just before this mess started too. Who knows? This," he gestured towards the door, "might just be permanent."

He looked over to Sherlock, whose face bore an only slightly smaller version of his own smile.

* * *

It took almost three weeks for the doctors to declare him fit to go home this time. Sherlock... hovered as he left, there was no other word for it; he was never more than a metre from John's side all the way to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson greeted him with a gentle hug and an offer of tea- "Just this once, mind!"- and there was fresh wallpaper and carpeting in the upstairs hallway.

John sank into his armchair, glancing over the living room. Someone had cleaned it- there wasn't a single piece of paper loose. Sherlock took his scarf off at the doorway and stood there awkwardly passing it from hand to hand until Mrs Hudson brought the tea up.

"Sit down, Sherlock," she told him, patting the sofa as she took the other armchair. He obeyed wordlessly, and John giggled at the sight._ How many policemen would give their right arm to be able to do that?_

The tea was exactly as he liked it, his armchair was comfortable and as Mrs Hudson began to nag Sherlock about his eating habits, his sleeping pattern and his violin playing (recommending various pieces as a substitute for the strangled cat noise), a smiling John allowed himself to settle down and drift off to sleep.


End file.
